


Don't Worry, You're Stronger

by Khemi



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Childhood Memories, Family Fluff, Gen, Guns, Inspired by Fanart, Melancholy, and pumpkins, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 16:36:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khemi/pseuds/Khemi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been a while since you looked at them.</p><p>You do, time to time, the nostalgic need ebbing and flowing like a tide in your chest, through relative calm to tight, urgent want. They’re just guns, you tell yourself, you have a <em>thousand</em> guns all piled up and ready to admire.</p><p>Except these pistols… They <em>aren’t</em> just guns, and the emotion they never fail to pull from you is visceral, like nothing else - but perhaps the scent of burning wood and hair - ever can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Worry, You're Stronger

**Author's Note:**

> A little fic for [Swaggie Jay](http://nannasghost.tumblr.com/) inspired by [this gorgeous art.](http://nannasghost.tumblr.com/post/62371191267/there-are-monsters-under-your-bed-but-youre)

It’s been a while since you looked at them.

You do, time to time, the nostalgic need ebbing and flowing like a tide in your chest, through relative calm to tight, urgent want. They’re just guns, you tell yourself, you have a _thousand_ guns all piled up and ready to admire. You have any weapon you want now, really, if you’re willing to spend another few hours puzzling out those game doohickeys alone until either fortune leaves you triumphant or you relent and call Dirk or Roxy or Jane to come and help you when the object you have in mind seems to always stay just beyond your grasp.

Except these pistols… They aren’t _just_ guns, and the emotion they never fail to pull from you is visceral, like nothing else - but perhaps the scent of burning wood and hair - ever can.

They’re plain. Perhaps the plainest you own, truth be told. No fancy grip or shining barrel, no silly technological quirk that makes them fun to unleash. Just worn, simple pistols in blacks and browns that were once polished and rich, now dulled with age, not that you mind. You could still use them, if you wanted, although they sit a little smaller in your hand than before. Once upon a time they more than filled it, made you feel a proper, dashing adventurer. Now you recall they feel more like the miniature guns a fair dame would stow in her purse in the film noir you sometimes settle in to enjoy, and remind you how big you’re getting, how much you’ve grown, whispering to you in a voice you only just remember _what a strong young man you’ve become_.

You didn’t get them out straight away, when you entered the game. There was too much time with other people, too much time occupied and thinking of other things, and when you finally settle on a fallen standing stone atop a grassy mound, it’s almost an afterthought that leaves you searching them out of your strife deck, and holding them loosely in your hands.

It’s been a while since you looked at them.

They feel even smaller now, at first, and yet when you stop and look at them, they’re much bigger than you thought. Only barely smaller than the guns you still use - has it really been so long since you saw them that you’d forgotten that? Changed it in you mind?

Perhaps you have not grown near as much as you thought.

Or is it just that the first time you held them, they felt so _big_ , your fingers stretched so _far_ , that the once fantastically large has now become mundane, and too small for the wonder you once regarded it with? There are a lot of things you once held in wonder that feel less incredible now - but enough remain to keep you smiling. To keep you looking forward to you next adventure, especially now you don’t have to have them all alone.

It’s been a long time since you adventured with something that wasn’t just a metal approximation of a friend. The last hands that held yours and led you on towards each new day were the same ones that once place these pistols in your palms, and helped you learn to hold them steady.

“Come on, Jake.” She’d told you, voice full of affection and understanding as you tried your hardest to comply. “You can do it, I know you can.”

You remember that day with much more clarity than others you spent with her, even if you can’t quite even shake the blurring around the edge caused by the constant push of time. She woke you up nice and early with a fresh pumpkin pie and a big crinkly smile, told you she had a surprise for you, and in the way you always did as a child you started asking what it was, where it was, why you were getting it, when you were getting it, an endless stream of babbled questions she chuckled at and answered just to wait and see, silly.

You waited with all the impatience you could muster, bouncing on your bed, rolling around the floor, chasing her from place to place and tugging gently on her long hair. She giggled at you, ruffled your own hair up into a mess, chided you when you darted underfoot and tried her best to look stern as she told you to calm down, even though the corners of her mouth kept twitching up.

But you just _had_ to know! You _had_ to! This wasn’t even funny, she had a surprise and you were going to drop dead right now if you didn’t know what it was!

When she finally moved over and slowly knelt in front of you, wincing a little like she was doing more and more recently, you were vibrating with excitement, a grin across your face in a flash when she told you that you were both going for the surprise, now. She had one request, and only one, that you had to do first, and you nodded quickly, eager to do whatever it was.

Your grin dimmed a little when she told you that you had to leave your guns behind.

They weren’t real guns, not back then, they were little intricate replicas Grandma had made for you, looking fancy and clicking loudly like they’d fired when you pulled their triggers, quickly having become your favourite thing in the whole wide world. You ran after her, sometimes, making like _pchoo pchoos_ as you fired at imaginary beasts, raiding lost temples in your mind.

But now she was telling you to leave them, for the first time since you’d unwrapped them two whole birthdays ago.

You did, slowly, ever so reluctantly, placing them with reverence down on your bed before you went back to her and tightly held her hand. You were a little scared, without them, but it was okay. Grandma was here. She’d keep you safe.

The walk was long enough you got distracted from the imminent surprise, staring up and around you, spotting white flashes through the trees, trying to pick out all the animals you could hear and excitedly telling her every single one to see if you were right. She corrected you patiently, or congratulated you with a smile, and steps turned to strides turned to a hop skip and a jump over rocks and pumpkin vines.

What felt like forever later, though was really only about ten minutes, she stopped in a clearing full of those familiar orange squashes that surrounded your home, the light streaming down through the branches of the trees above and turning her silver hair white.  You were so distracted by your imaginary adventure that you nearly bumped into her back, but you caught yourself, frowning quizzically as she turned you to face her. Was this your surprise? Pumpkins weren’t a very _good_ surprise. You had so many of them, after all!

She put a hand on your shoulder, moving the other behind her back, and gave you a small little smile, like she had a secret to tell you that only you could know. You waited, ever so patiently, even though you were bouncing on your heels and had your hands clasped together over your chest like an unintentional prayer to the blessed god of gifts and goodies that you got your surprise soon.

You don’t _quite_ remember what she said next, and it will forever be one of your regrets. You know it was sweet, and teasing, and in that wonderful voice you can’t really recall, but the moment after is so bright in your memory it seems to dim those that surround it.

She slid her other hand behind her back and then withdrew them, held out the pistols, let you look from them to her face and back again. They looked a little plainer than your ones on your bed, and you said so, still excited to have some new toys.

“Yes, Jake,” She answered, kind and understanding, excitement bubbling just below her easy words, “but the difference is, these ones are _real_.”

To this day, you have never again made a sound so loud and high as the one that left you in that instant, and you whipped both of those firearms from her hands speedy as a cheetah not a moment later. They were heavier than you were used to, as they weren’t lacking a mechanism, and you were barely trying to hold them before Grandma tutted and laugh and made you put one in the holster ever present on your thigh, though your hand wouldn’t leave it, before cupping her palms around your other, long fingers poking and prodding and gently teasing your digits into place. She helped you steady it, murmured encouragements and echoed your pleased whooping as you got something right, before tentatively releasing one hand and moving it to hold your shoulder, squeezing supportively, fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt.

You fired your own gun for the first time with her finger over yours, warm and soft and not as strong as it used to be. Grandma told you you shot like a real adventurer, and someday you’d be a great one, which was just what you wanted, and made you so happy to hear her say.

She sounded so proud when she told you that they were yours now, to keep you safe, and as you placed the second in its new holster (quietly revelling in how heavy they felt compared to the toys that used to sit there) you looked up into her vivid green eyes and asked from what.

“There _are_ monsters under your bed, Jake.” She warned you, voice quiet and serious, putting both hands on your shoulders and crouching down so she was at your height, ignoring your suddenly worried expression. There were monsters? They were real? Even though you’d spent so long fighting them in your mind, you weren’t sure you _could_ fight them, not really. Your lips trembled at her tone, and she shushed you, one hand moving up to cup your cheek.

“There _are_ monsters, but you’re _stronger_.”

You looked at her, and she looked back at you, giving a caring smile full of pride and affection.

“Don’t worry.”

The guns are warm in your hands, now, your grip on them tighter than you thought. You wake from the daze of memory and stare at them, blinking a few times and telling yourself that there’s just some blasted speck of dust in your eyes.

You miss her. You have done for a long time, but here and now you miss her _terribly_ , in this new strange world with all these new strange sights.

Grandma would know what to do, you think, and even though you know this game is meant to let you finally, _finally_ see her again, it still feels like that moment is so very far away, just like that memory of her smiling at you, glowing in the sunlight, hands old and frailer than you want to admit but still so warm with life.

You look out over the green mounds and other standing stones, see the distant movements of skeletal beasts silhouetted against the horizon.

Hah!

The monsters _were_ real. Grandma was right, as ever.

You look down to the guns, and slide them in your hands so your fingers can close around the grip, and slide so naturally into place over the triggers.

Grandma was right, about the monsters.

Now it’s time for you to show them that you’re _strong_.

 


End file.
